


equinox

by thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not just Akashi's hair that presented stark differences; his eyes have increased in softness, these months they haven't kept contact. Midorima has never withered under Akashi's belittling stare, not in Teikou and certainly not during their semi-finals match, but his benevolence is harder to weather. </p><p>(All the more precious because it wasn't always this rare.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	equinox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curse/gifts).



Spring is not a melancholic season by nature -- in reference to both public perception and the science involved, life blooming anew in the wake of a harsh winter -- but with the senior's graduation waiting in the days ahead, he sought to honor them with Chopin's subtle grace. Like an inhale drawn out, sliding slow as dew drops from a leaf.

They might regard the choice as another of his eccentricities ("it's a graduation, not a mass funeral, Midorima") and his mentorship with them might have been turbulent at best; it does little to erase how they had fought for victory alongside him in the stadium and, just as importantly, in the practice gymnasium. Midorima's respect is difficult to earn, and when it does it is rightfully given.

So, Chopin. Chopin until the relative quiet of the music room is disturbed by the click of the doorknob, followed by light but brisk footsteps, as if their owner is small in stature and commanding all the same. Only one person fits the description perfectly, not that said person is ever very far from Midorima's mind.

"Midorima," says Akashi. Not _Shintarou_ , Midorima notes with conflicting sentiments, and while his fingers halt in the midst of Chopin his heart screams Vivaldi. 

(Trite, saccharine, and ill-fitting, and still achingly joyous.)

He turns to that voice because it is polite to address a visitor, and because he cannot do otherwise, a sunflower unable to resist the pull of daylight. In the dim glow of the afternoon filtering through the room's solitary window Akashi is unchanged from their last meeting, aside for the length of his hair. His bangs have grown back since December.

"You aren't in Kyoto," says Midorima, more of an observation than a greeting. "Why?"

"I was told I'd find you here," says Akashi, a deflection, as he steps towards the piano and towards Midorima. "I have the day off, so to speak, and Tokyo is inviting this time of year."

"So you thought to ambush me at my school."

"I thought to visit an old friend."

Midorima had been wrong earlier. It's not just Akashi's hair that presented stark differences; his eyes have increased in softness, these months they haven't kept contact. Midorima has never withered under Akashi's belittling stare, not in Teikou and certainly not during their semi-finals match, but his benevolence is harder to weather. 

(All the more precious because it wasn't always this rare.)

Midorima clears his throat and looks away, a paltry response. Vivaldi rings in his ears like a mockery. If Akashi is offended by his rudeness, he doesn't comment on it.

"May I sit?" he says instead, his voice closer now. Midorima slides over to make room for him on the bench.

"I assume you want to play a duet."

"Astute as ever," says Akashi, his fingers hovering above his side of the keys. There's no sarcasm in his tone. "It's been a while since I practiced. Do go easy on me."

Midorima scoffs and begins the opening chords to _Fur Elise_. It takes Akashi three whole seconds to realize, and the deception is worth the smile Midorima would've seen, if not for the hinges of his glasses. 

(Saved by his poor eyesight, who would've known?)

"You seem to think I'm patronizing you. Very well, no more games. Play from your advanced repertoire and I'll follow to the best of my ability." 

"If you can," says Midorima, more of a tease than a taunt, the small victory improving his mood. Akashi nods once, the smile still in place as he returns the tease in equal measure.

"If I can."

Midorima takes Akashi through several pages of classical, the sort Akashi heard him play in middle school -- even summoning enough courtesy out of Murasakibara to keep him from chewing during a piece --  as they rode on hours stolen from club and study sessions. Back then, Midorima didn't play to an empty room.

(Takao tails him, occasionally, but he doesn't stay for long. "Feels like I'm intruding," he'd say before he leaves, and Midorima doesn't protest because he isn't entirely wrong.)

Before they're forced to linger on the latter end of the memories, unpleasant for everyone involved, Midorima replaces the sheet music. In this one the pieces are modern, pop music he wouldn't listen to under other circumstances. Akashi's amusement speaks for itself when his fingertips bounce off the keys, playing with double the energy the pieces need.

Midorima finally allows himself a smile.

He isn't sure when he veers off script, when he closes his eyes not because he's memorized the music, but to ignore it completely, his hands moving of their own accord as he thinks of almost-deserted rooms, of red hair glinting like rubies under the afternoon sun, of a smile like the promise of spring when the air is below freezing. He thinks of (un)lucky shogi tiles, of the battles he's never won, and how none of that matters at all, when his oldest friend might as well have returned from a war.

It's not Vivaldi, but it's something close.

When he opens his eyes it's to singular applause, which wasn't necessary. Midorima can read the pleasure on Akashi's expression just fine.

Akashi speaks first, his fingers no longer on the keys but on his lap. "I wasn't aware you composed."

"Neither was I." Midorima adjusts his glasses, self-conscious without the veneer of music to speak for him. "Perhaps I should've recorded it."

"Perhaps," says Akashi as he readies himself to stand. "Save a seat for me, when I visit Tokyo again." And then he dares to walk away from Midorima, again.

Midorima refuses to be the spectator to this sight for the hundredth time.

"Rakuzan's music facilities are well-equipped, moreso than Shuutoku's." He hasn't turned around, his gaze fixed on the music sheet he hasn't touched. If Akashi has already left, well, he will only say this once.

"It would be more beneficial to hold the recording there."

He exhales and expects to hear silence. He would be disappointed.

"Then it's a date, Shintarou."

 


End file.
